


In Memoriam

by TinyOctopus



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/ Alcoholism, Angst, BYOT: Bring Your Own Tissues, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/ Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Ficlet, Grieving, M/M, Moving On, POV Third Person Omniscient, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Promises, Regret and Loss, Renewing Marriage Vows, Seven Stages of Grief, Suicidal Thoughts, The Slow Path to Recovery, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-09 16:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13484985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyOctopus/pseuds/TinyOctopus
Summary: Two dead men relearn what it means to live.Or—a series of character studies focusing on Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes after the explosion at the Swiss Headquarters.





	1. When I Sorrow Most

**Author's Note:**

> The quotes used throughout the end notes are taken from the poem _In Memoriam_ by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soldier: 76 visits Gabriel Reyes at his last known address.

Dry leaves crunched beneath the slow, heavy tread of the soldier's boots. The grass, stiffened by a late autumn frost, flattened beneath his weight, each footprint a visible reminder of what laid behind him. His path meandered between the rows, the destination always within his sight. There was no hurry to his footsteps, no urgency to propel him forward. After all, he had all the time in the world. 

At last, he stopped before the quiet spot, shaded beneath the boughs of a velvet ash: Gabriel Reyes' last known address. 

Nothing loud, no pomp or circumstance here, just a narrow lot crammed into a forgotten corner. From the abundance of weeds and overgrown grass, the soldier doubted anyone else even cared enough to visit. 

Except him, of course. 

Soldier: 76 sighed, the sound like the rustle of autumn leaves tumbling down a dusty road, his breath crystallizing into curls of white mist. He sat down on the frost-kissed grass, stiff joints creaking with age. The cold seeped into his bones, but he paid it little mind as he reached into his rucksack and pulled out a case of beer. 

Delicate glass bottles clinked together as he set them down beside him. He uncapped one with a deft twist of his wrist and let the bottle hang between his fingers. After the last wips of carbonation wafted from the open mouth, the soldier first brushed aside mottled leaves to make room and then set the bottle down in front of him.

"Brought your favorite," he said at last. "You'd never guess how damn difficult it is to find this stuff off-season. Had to order it special. Hope you appreciate the trouble." He reached over for a bottle of his own and opened it. 

It tasted just like he remembered. His shoulders shook with bitter laughter, a contrast to the sweetness of the strawberries on his tongue. 

"Sometimes, I wish we were still on speaking terms." His thumb traced over the familiar label, the words evoking memories of a bygone age. "I miss your voice the most. Never thought I'd admit it, but here I am." He brought the bottle to his lips and drank deep. The beer burned down his throat and settled into his stomach. 

He finished the bottle and opened another. His thoughts drifted to the past, just as they always did whenever he visited here. 

"Beware of old men in a profession where most die young." The soldier scoffed and shook his head. "That's what you used to say, right?" The soldier finished the bottle and drew another one from the case. "Funny how that turned out."

Soldier: 76 waited for an answer, just in case. 

"You're awfully quiet today. I think you might still be mad, what with this whole silent treatment. You sure picked the worst day to give me the cold shoulder." He wrapped his arms around himself and pantomimed shivering for effect. "I think it might snow tomorrow." 

Soldier: 76 finished his bottle and let out a slow breath, the cold, dry air stabbing through his lungs. He welcomed the pain, a counterpoint to the healing scars dividing his face, still sensitive enough to ache when he stretched the new skin.

"Last thing you said to me, I think, was go to hell." He laughed. "Is that what this is? Feels too cold for that, you know—too empty, too lonely—but it makes sense, when you stop and think about it. Jack Morrison died, and now he's cursed to wander the grey, endless purgatory ‘til…" He trailed off and laughed into the rim of his bottle. "I forgot. You told me this a few times, too, about faith and God and His plans. Sorry I never paid more attention." 

He emptied another bottle and set down beside the rest. He lifted the last one from the case and considered the glint of sunlight off the dark brown glass. "I'll take it, since you have yet to finish your first one. Guess you've turned into a lightweight after all this time." He cracked the bottle open and let it dangle between loose fingers. "To be fair, neither of us have been able to get drunk without lots of effort since the SEP. Remember that time in Maotai with that shitty Chinese vodka?" He tried to laugh.

"Sometimes, I wake up and forget. I reach over and find cold, untouched sheets, and no matter how much I pretend, they don't smell like you: not your cologne, not your aftershave, not that stupidly expensive mint soap you always bought." He tipped his head back and swallowed down the last bottle all at once. It joined its brethren on the grass, soldiers lined up in neat, tidy rows. A silent vigil. 

Soldier: 76 reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. It fit easily in the cusp of his hand, the metal dulled and scratched with age. The chipped orange and silver Overwatch emblem mocked him, and the soldier closed his fist around it. Despite its small size, it weighed heavily in his palm. 

"I'll find out what happened." His thumb traced the raised edge of the coin. "I promise." He brushed scarred lips over the cool metal before he bent over to set it atop the time-worn stone. Not a quarter, no, but it would suit his purpose all the same. 

"When I'm done—when I've avenged you—I'll come back here to say goodbye. I didn't get the chance before. This time—the next time, I suppose—I want to do it right." He thumbed at the safety of his sidearm. On, click. Off, click. "Just one round in the chamber, quick and easy. The last thing I want to see is you. That way, even if..." His throat closed, thick with emotion; he couldn't finish the sentence. "'Til death do us part, Gabe, just like before. We promised each other that a long time ago, and I haven't forgotten." His lips curved down into a sad smile. "Just wait for me a little while longer, and then I'll see you again. You understand, right?" 

There was no answer, and he told himself he hadn't expected one. A bitter lie, but here and now, he could believe.

Soldier: 76 rose to his feet with a sigh and cleaned up the cardboard case, the empty bottles, the decaying leaves, until only the first untouched beer remained. 

He straightened to attention and brought his left heel to rest against his right, a perfect forty-five degree angle. Stiff legs, level hips, lifted chest, straight back, shoulders square and even. He touched the tip of his right forefinger to the corner of his brow, palm flat and arm arranged in a straight line. He held the position until his body grew numb from the chill, until the pain in his chest dulled to a bearable ache. 

The dying sunlight caught the glint of metal resting on polished marble, and he blamed it for the burn of his eyes, the wet heat rolling down frozen cheeks. Soldier: 76 turned on his heel, pivoted, and left the headstone behind. Dry leaves crunched beneath the slow, heavy tread of his boots, until at last, the cemetery grew quiet and still. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I hold it true, whate'er befall;_   
>  _I feel it, when I sorrow most;_   
>  _'Tis better to have loved and lost_   
>  _Than never to have loved at all._   
>    
> 


	2. It There May Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Gabriel Reyes, Jack Morrison will always be a hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look. There's more.

This late in the day, the Arlington National Cemetery quieted beneath the mottled grey sky. Visitors hurried back to the entrance where the land of the living waited, but rather than follow them, the man in black wove between the headstones, one more ghost among the dead. 

He stopped a distance away from his destination, hidden beneath the shadow of a leafless tree. Narrowed eyes considered the small crowd gathered around the grave—students and their teacher on a tour, it seemed. 

The guide pointed down to the slab of white marble as she spoke. "Here, you can see the grave of Jack Morrison, the Strike Commander of Overwatch. A veteran of the United States armed forces, he—alongside Gabriel Reyes—saved the world during the Omnic Crisis." 

"My dad says he was a war criminal," one of the children said. "I'm _glad_ he died." 

The man's fist tightened around the flowers. Beneath the tree, the shadows grew darker and longer. 

"I shook his hand after a speech once! He signed my notebook!" 

"Shut up, Susan! No one cares. My uncle worked for Overwatch, and he said that Reyes deserved the position more. _He_ was the real hero, so Morrison can—" 

"Well then," the tour guide interrupted, "why don't we head over to the eternal flame before we head back to the bus?" The woman walked away and the children followed—all except three. 

One ripped down the flag hanging above the grave, the orange and silver insignia bright against the blue field. Another kicked over the flower arrangements, porcelain shattering against unforgiving stone. When the third child brought out a permanent marker, something in him snapped.

The dead man closed the distance between them, trails of black smoke whispering off his skin. With the cowl of his hood casting his face in shadow, he loomed behind the children: an apparition formed out of the grey mist. Sensing his presence, the children looked up, suddenly face-to-face with a ghost made flesh. 

"Go. Away," he said, soft and serious. 

They ran. 

Once alone, the dead man knelt down, the stiff grass yielding to mud. "Kids these days," he sighed out, more to himself than the man in front of him, patient and unflinching despite the chill in the air. "You ever wonder if we saved the world _too_ well?" He snorted and then shook his head. "Nah, don't say anything. I already know your answer: you never once questioned it." His lips turned downward in a wry smile. 

"It's why you're such a good man. Oh sure, you have your days when you start to sound as cynical and jaded as me, but then you bounce right back. It's usually a little thing, too, something small and otherwise insignificant, like that time I found you at your desk, reading a hand-drawn thank you letter from a child who can barely spell your name. You are—" The words caught in his throat. "You _were_ such a good man. The best I've ever met. The world doesn't— _didn't_ —deserve you." 

With trembling fingers, he gathered the rain-marked slips of paper into a neat pile. Out of curiosity, he opened one of the cards, lips quirking into a wry smile when he read the illegible text. He should have known better. Whatever the words had once said, time and the elements had washed them away. Shaking his head, he righted one of the vases and set the heavy ceramic down on top of the pile to keep the cards in place.

"I don't know what to do now that you're gone." 

He stared down at the trampled flower petals, straining to hear heavy footsteps, the rustle of a bright blue leather duster, a familiar laugh. 

He waited and waited and waited—just in case. 

...but nothing happened. 

"Can we start over?" The dead man inhaled a long, slow breath, exhaled, and then smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing. When he spoke again, his voice was warm and gentle. "Hey handsome. Long time no see. If you missed me half as much as I missed you…" He laughed, fond and warm. Then, his words—so often spoken, they were practically a script unto themselves—sank in. His smile vanished. 

"Right." He cleared his throat. "I'll have you know, I had everything all planned out. Thought I'd surprise you with flowers just like old times—a dozen red roses. Sappy, sure, but can you blame me?" The dead man picked up the bouquet, the crumpled paper smeared with mud, and held it out. He grimaced at the sight. "I know, I know. They're not the best—sorry about that. Only two of the roses opened up, but I'll make it up to you on our next date, even if I have to go through the entire flower shop myself." He set the flowers beside the flat grave marker. 

"What have I been up to since my last visit? Hmmm." He rubbed a hand across his chin, fingers rasping over his beard. "Not much. I slept a lot, ate when I could remember. It's been a slow week. I blame the weather." He pointed up at the overcast sky. "What else. Let's see…"

He snapped his fingers. "Oh! I finally watched that speech you gave in Prague. You know, the one where you talked about standing resolute in the face of adversity, how you believe in the mission statement of Overwatch, how you've tirelessly worked to make the world a better place for well over a decade. It was a great speech, definitely one of your best. Wish I’d been able to take my head out of my ass long enough to hear it in person, but I think I was still pissed about Blackwatch's suspension back then." 

He shook his head. 

"God, I was so angry at you then. Still am, if I'm being honest, but I can't yell anymore. I did enough of that for one lifetime." His breath puffed out into the cold air, thick with the late autumn damp. "I always feel worse after I calm down, you know? Sick with regret. I never mean any of it. All of it—it's just bullshit. I'm sorry— _again_ —for what I said." His breathing hitched. 

"You _know_ I didn't mean it, right? If I'd known that was the last thing I'd ever tell you, I would never have opened my fucking mouth in the first place. You know that. You know me. I _want_ to take it all back. I do. If I hadn't been so stupid, if there was a way to do it, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I just—" Thunder rumbled in the distance, drowning out his next words. 

He inhaled a ragged breath. 

Then another. 

Then another. 

When he spoke again, his voice sounded strained. "You know, Jack," he began, "I can't figure out what pisses me off more: that your next-door-neighbor isn't much company or that I'm here again, trying to make up for his empty plot." The name carved into the second tombstone mocked him. 

"Not even sure what to call myself anymore. It just doesn't feel right to wear a dead man's name, you know? Bad luck and all that. Gabriel Reyes died in the explosion at the Swiss Headquarters, though no one admitted his casket was empty when they buried him beside his _best friend_." He snorted. "Gabriel Reyes, a war hero, a brave man who saved the world against insurmountable odds—I'm pretty sure I stole that line from a plaque somewhere." He shook his head.

"We've had so many close calls before." He laughed, soft and low. "Must've pissed off the Grim Reaper so much, he didn't want to give you back to me this time. I completely understand—I never wanted to share you either." He flicked at one of the bent flower stems littering the ground. 

"You know, since I'm still alive, I keep hoping you are, too. Somehow. I know it’s not good to keep my hopes up, but can you blame me? The world needs heroes, Jack, and I'm not one of them. I only did it because of you, y'know. Because you saw the good in me. Because you made me _want_ to be a better man. Because you loved me, you trusted me, and you believed in me, even when I gave you every damned reason otherwise."

His breath hitched in his throat and he bowed his head. "Jack, I don't know how to do it all without you by my side." 

A droplet of water splattered onto his nose, and the man in black pulled his hood farther down over his head. 

"I better go. Don't want to get caught out in the rain. I'll be back soon, okay?" He pressed a kiss to the cold marble, turned on his heel, and then disappeared into the mist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yet as that other, wandering there_   
>  _In those deserted walks, may find_   
>  _A flower beat with rain and wind,_   
>  _Which once she foster'd up with care;_   
>    
>  _So seems it in my deep regret,_   
>  _O my forsaken heart, with thee_   
>  _And this poor flower of poesy_   
>  _Which little cared for fades not yet._   
>    
>  _But since it pleased a vanish'd eye,_   
>  _I go to plant it on his tomb,_   
>  _That if it can it there may bloom,_   
>  _Or, dying, there at least may die._   
> 


End file.
